


Dispatches from the Wizarding War

by pickleplum



Series: Unconventional Magic [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Blood and Injury, Friendship, Gen, Glasgow, Hogwarts Era, Magic, Magic School, Magic-Users, Scotland, Second War with Voldemort, Vampires, Werewolves, Wizarding Politics, Wizarding World, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickleplum/pseuds/pickleplum
Summary: While Harry, Ron, and Hermione search for Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes to end the war, other citizens of the Wizarding World find their own ways to oppose the Dark Lord.(Focusing on the inhabitants of Glasgow and the Scottish School of Magic featured in the rest of this series.)





	1. Present Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gothams_Only_Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reappearance of Lord Voldemort occasions a meeting between a Glasgow fixture and a leader of the Scottish resistance.

08 September 1995  
Bellahouston Park  
City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK

* * *

He strolls into the playground, scanning the equipment and empty spaces for his target.

Giggles from a little hollow off to his right.

He sniffs the air— _sweat, arousal, adrenaline, cider_ —rolls his eyes, grumbles, "Teenagers."

Wades deeper into the park, eyes and nose peeled.

A metal-on-metal squeak from the left.

The smell of countryside, big dog, and bloody-fuckin'-magic.

He sighs, tucks his nose into his scarf, slouches in that direction.

A scrawny someone with curly, mostly-dark hair sits on one of the swings, head tilted back to admire the orange light reflecting off the clouds, maybe?

He shrugs internally, walks up, parks his arse on the next swing.

"Lovely night, int it?" says Diarmad.

"If you're planning on catching your death." He snorts. "I **can't** be that lucky."

"It's not going to be the Scottish weather which kills me, I think."

He digs out his packet of fags from his jacket, shakes one free, pats his pocket.

The **rest** of his pockets.

"Got a light?" he asks.

"Those things'll kill you."

" **You** can't be that lucky."

Diarmad snorts, snaps his fingers.

The end of the fag sparks, ignites.

"Thanks." He fills his lungs, then breathes out pure slow. "Why'm I here?"

"That's rather philosophical of—"

"Save it. Why'd you want to see me?"

Diarmad pushes off, sets his swing swinging. "I've coaxed a research budget from Thomas and I'm thinking of using it on treatments for werewolves."

Another drag, then, "You think war's coming and he'll be using pups as weapons again."

"I do," sighs Diarmad. "I suspect you do, as well."

"Yea, it's in the air, alright."

Diarmad grunts, pushes his swing higher.

"I can't help you fight."

"I know."

"I won't help Them."

"I know."

"You won't be pulling Cherish into this."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"And none of you'll be **fighting** here, aye?"

"I'm not **nearly** mad enough to anger the mighty Laird of Glasgow."

"Yea, he's a right cunt when you step on his toes." He smiles. "Messes up the polish. Pisses him off."

Diarmad snorts a laugh.

"Wouldn't be so bad if he could afford servants, but the job doesn't pay what it used to." He takes in the last of the smoke, blows it out. "'course, nothing does in this economy."

"Excellent point, Mister Paterson—"

"Not anymore. It's time for a change." He drops the end of his fag on the gravel, grinds it underfoot, picks it up, palms it. "I'll answer to 'Donald Douglas' for the next while."

"Well then, Mister Douglas, I'm pleased to meet you. Again."

"Wish I could say the same to you, Mister Fairbairn."

Diarmad pouts. "I'm not your best friend? Not even **a** friend?"

"Since when can your kind and mine be friends?"

"Since you trusted me with your daughter's education?"

"I trusted Gowdie and Kinnaird, not **you**."

"And yet Cherish told me I was her favourite teacher."

He snorts. "I told her to practice lying on you."

Diarmad digs in his heels, drags himself to a stop. "You taught your daughter to **lie**?"

"She's gonna be a politician of sorts someday. Figured it'd be a useful skill t'have."

Diarmad laughs.

He smiles.

"Hopefully she won't be taking office for a very, **very** long time. I'd miss my friend the Laird dearly."

He toes the stones. "Well, I suppose a man's gotta take what friends he can."

"Present company, for example."

"Yea, exactly like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Lesley Mitchell](https://www.flickr.com/photos/dkscully/29631220862/).


	2. Magic Missile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One witch decides on a very direct, very Muggle solution to the problem of Lord Voldemort.

08 September 1995  
MacKay's Exchange  
The Blessing, City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK

* * *

The chimes over the door shimmer and Augie squawks as she steps in.

Mick looks up, eyebrow climbing with his suspicion. "Isobel Gowdie."

She smiles—like a cat with a mouthful of canary, honestly—strolls up to the counter. "Hello, Mister MacKay. It's been too long."

"That it has." He props his elbows on the glass. "What can I find for you today?"

Isobel leans her hip against the display case. "I'm thinking about something along the lines of what I bought from you last time I was in."

"That was a good twenty years ago, so you'll have to refresh my memory."

She smiles and it's terribly Fae.

Mick controls a shiver.

"I've use for a reliable handgun. Something with decent stopping power."

"I maaay be able to help **if** I know what you'll be hunting."

"Wizard." She bares her teeth. "You-Know-Who, specifically."

Mick blinks rapidly. "You aim to **shoot** He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Of course I'll be **aiming** , dear. I intend to kill him."

Mick swallows. "That's ... that's not very wizardly of ye. Using a gun against a wizard."

Isobel laughs from her belly. "What's a gun but a Muggle magic missile spell, aye?"

Mick snickers despite himself. "S'pose that makes a knife a wand."

"Indeed. And poison a transmutation potion."

"You are one **Hell** of a witch."

"I know, dear." She pats Mick's hand. "Can you find me something serviceable?"

"I think ... I think my friends on the Continent can field something useful. Give me a week to sort the details?"

"That's just fine. I'll pop back in then."

"Would you rather I called?"

"Nah. Don't need Thomas finding out about this **just** yet." She sighs, fond. "He's so **traditional** sometimes I'd swear he's stuck in the Middle Ages."

Mick snorts a laugh. "Noted. Look forward to seeing you next week."

"Same here, Mister MacKay. Tah~!" Isobel waves over her shoulder as she saunters out.

The chimes shimmer.

Augie looks to Mick.

Mick sighs. "That woman ...."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Francisco Daum](https://www.flickr.com/photos/franciscodaum/33170568620/).


	3. Death a'Ye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a pair of wizards, a werewolf hunt through city streets changes a number of lives.

12 February 1998  
East Kilbride, South Lanarkshire, Scotland, UK

* * *

"You're making too much noise," growls Ailsa.

"A huvnae said a **feckin'** word!"

She gives Beathan a Look.

"'til just now, 'a course."

She laughs. "It's your **shoes**. Why can't you wear normal boots? Or trainers?"

"There's somethin' tae be said for tradition." Beathan grins, devil-may-care, shuffles so his tackety boots _tack-tackety_ against the pavement. "'sides, ye cannae **really** stomp a beastie intae submission with trainers, can ye?"

"Says the numpty who wouldn't beat **anything** into submission given his choice."

"Ye huvnae hae problems with my personal style 'fore t'night."

"I haven't **mentioned** a problem before. Doesn't mean I've been square with things."

"A needtae be afeard yer gawn run off with Hansen?"

"I don't rob cradles," grumbles Ailsa, eyes fastened on her swinging clutch of crystals and medals. "All these bloody ee-em fields messing with my readings. Left." Glowers. "I think."

"Left itis."

"Who turns untreated werewolves loose in fuckin' **East** **Kilbride**?"

"The bastarts we're dealing with, hen."

Ailsa huffs, turns them right and into a lane of on-the-tired-side houses. "We're **sure** there're five of 'em?"

"'s hoot all the spotters said an' we've four of 'em dealt with already, so, if my maths're right, ane's still out here. Somewhere."

Ailsa's pendants twirl a circle of indecisive.

She frowns something fierce, grumps, "Saint Christopher Dog-head, there's **got** to be a better way—"

Beathan makes a megaphone from his cupped hands. "Here, Wolfie~! Here, lassie~! Come tae yer daw~!"

Ailsa stops, hands on hips, lips thin. "Weren't the orders to keep things quiet?"

"Rat-arsed roaster yellin' fer his dog **is** quiet fer—"

Air splits and they're at dead full sprints before the first scream makes maximum volume, 'round another corner, down—

Beathan grabs for the wolf's throat from half a block away, roars, " ** _Linga!_** "—

A _whoosh!_ —

The abhorred vacuum collapses as air fills in the space.

He keeps running, boots clattering against pavement until—

Three down: man in the gutter, woman on someone's garden path—

" **Ailsa!** Th' feck're—"

She skids up, goes to her knees, bounces the toppled pram into the street, cradles the bleeding bairn, mumbling charms sweet enough to coax the dead back and digging for her sealing salve.

He's got nothing to add to that, so he checks the man—

Beyond help.

—the woman.

Beyond—

"Aw shite, Annie," he breathes, crouches. "'s been **yonks** , but A didnae wantae meet ye again like this." Sighs, "Let's pretty ye up a tad. 's'not fair tae leave a bonnie bird in sucha state." Waves a hand, cocks his head. Another breath and a flick and he approves his handiwork, pushes to his feet, slouches to the man. Gives him the same sort of makeover, then back to Ailsa and the poor bairn's side.

She gathers the pale—

Wean whines.

Beathan's heart skips, happy as a lark.

—bairn close, eases upright. "I've done what I can. Rest is down to how much Fight he has."

"Savin' the innocent from death's very door." Pecks her temple. "That's my Ailsa."

"What about them?"

"I cannae fix 'beheaded' or 'emptied of blood'."

"Surprised t'hear you admit it."

Beathan rolls it off his shoulders. "Right, then. Sanctuary. We should make fer th' Reids."

"Why them?" Ailsa pushes damp red hair off the wean's forehead.

He whimpers and Beathan has to un-set his jaw.

"Why the Reids and not trying to find his family?"

"Who better t'guard a wee barra than giants?"

"They're not giants."

"Yenno the Ministry's records're fer shite on interracial families, aye?"

"Especially after you and Rocket Rory had a go at 'em."

He preens.

"But, why the Reids?"

Beathan takes a deep breath. "'cos I trust Tor with my life an' they're a short hop away." Wrinkles his nose. "Bairn solid enough t' Apparate, ye figure?"

"Govanhill should be no thing."

"Magic." Beathan stuffs himself in the nearest phone box, a convenient sixteen steps down the pavement (plus two more to miss the blood), picks up the banana-bit, presses his palm to the numbers.

Three rings and—

""Reid.""

"'ey, Fella-dear! Would'ye put yer da on?"

""Sure. **DAA!** ""

Jerks the handset away—

"" **PHONE!** ""

—switches ears. "Thanks, Fella."

""'bye!""

""Tor, here.""

A phone drops into its cradle.

"'s McEwan. I need a **toaty** favour from ye. Involves mindin' a cabbage."

Ailsa snorts from outside the door.

""Always up for baby-sitting. Bring 'em over.""

"We'll be at yer door in a wink. Thanks! Tah!" He hangs up.

Change clatters into the return slot.

"You're the stingiest Scotsman I know and that's saying a whole **lotta** somethings."

Beathan pockets the coins—"Mony a mickle maks a muckle!"—steps out of his little glass box, links his arm with hers. "An' ane-two-three~!"

The world sucks-spins- _spits_ them out on the steps of a terraced house.

Wean whimpers again.

Ailsa coos.

Beathan knocks.

Wean whimpers, quieter.

Tor Reid fills the doorframe, bows them inside.

Dona's looming in the close, trying to decide how miffed to be, then she spots the bairn and goes dead pure motherly.

Ailsa slides him into her arms.

Dona murmurs, "We'll be upstairs."

Tor watches her go, turns back to them, eyebrow up. "You two are the **funniest** -looking storks."

"Wee yin needs refuge fer the night, 'til we can work out where he rightly belongs."

"You want to sit and—"

"We need to get back out." Ailsa shrugs. "Duty calls."

Tor grunts with fellow-feeling.

"So. Right. He dinnae lose too much blood—"

" **Blood?** "

"Took a maulin' and needs tae get some strength back in a safe space."

Tor blinks twice, well slow, then some of his giant blood catches alight, and he rumbles, "What did this so I can grab Cal an' Mal and go take care of it?"

Ailsa bares her teeth. "We already 'took care'."

Tor looks away—maybe not so giant-y after all—tacks on a quiet, "What was it?"

"A werewolf."

Tor blinks, well fast now. "So he's—" His eyes flick toward the upper story and he swallows hard.

"If he makes it through th' first Change, aye." Beathan contemplates Tor's impressively tasteful foyer rug. "Never seen sucha wee yin facin' it, so." Shrugs.

Tor inhales sharp-ish, goes giant-ly again. "It likely to come back? Finish ...?"

"Nae. She's gawn to Shetland fer the night and we're gawn make dead sure she nae set a paw in town again."

Tor grunts approval.

"How's that security charm we set been holding?"

"We ...." He takes half the air in the close into his lungs. "Only house on this stretch hasn't been broken into this year."

"Quality. I'll go reset it, just to be certain. 'scuse me." Ailsa sidles out the door.

Beathan throws the bolt over his shoulder. "Tor, ye needtae know ... the burd we found him with? T'were Annie."

Tor goes unicorn white. "My old Annie?"

"Aye." Beathan's heart threatens a Xenomorph-ish escape and he squeaks, "He's nae yer—"

"He's hers. Kris." Tor shudders. "At least, he's the right age to be Kris."

"Aw, shite." Beathan rubs the back of his head. "Annie's man dark-haired, 'bout—" Gestures at clavicle level. "—long an' so—" A few inches above his head. "—tall?"

"Y-yea. If he's wearing all black, he's Andrew."

"He were."

A lot of things—and not a single one pleasant—flicker across Tor's face.

Beathan fiddles for nothing in the pockets of his leathers, anything to stop looking.

"What now? For him?"

"There other kin ye know of?"

"Not that'll take in a werewolf. Or anything magical." Another deep breath. "So, what happens?"

Beathan risks a butcher's, then straightens the rest of the way. "A tell my people; they find a family can take him."

Tor locks their eyes—the giant flashes again—rumbles, " **We'll** take him."

"He's gawn need—"

"We'll learn. The School knows what to do, aye?"

"Aye." Beathan smiles, hope creeping back for the first time since the screaming. "All connect the dots. They'll send a healer t'check him oot, prove he's truly Kris, then do the paper magic."

Tor makes a face, bursts out laughing to shake the house down.

"My lack'a skill—"

Tor waves him to quiet.

Beathan quietens.

"You were worried about the wean not making it, aye?"

"Aye?"

"Just remembered this's **Annie's** son we're talkin' about. He'll probably spit silver bullets right out."

"Ye ... yer very right aboot that," chuckles Beathan. "That woman ...."

They sigh—

Pounding on the door.

—jump together.

Beathan unlocks the door, braces for the inevitable.

Ailsa stomps in. "The bloody **fuck** was that about?!"

"Reflex?"

Tor snorts a laugh.

Ailsa rolls her eyes, turns to Tor. "We should probably leave you to a good night's. Thanks for watching the boy for us."

"You're welcome. Keep us in the loop, aye?"

"'a'course." Beathan tips an invisible traffic cone, opens the door, follows Ailsa out into the Glasgow streetlight glow.

They make it to the first crossing.

"Teleportin' that bitch to Shetland isn't **near** bad enough for what she did," growls Aisla.

"Figure the ten-foot drop intae the thorniest patch A could remember'll make it **li'l** bad."

"You should've killed her, Beathan."

"A dinnae kill animals, hen."

"She's a rabid dog if she's an animal."

"She's a dog gone **feral** : scran an' kindness an' she may come back 'round to bein' a pet."

Ailsa sighs, fond, digs an elbow into his ribs. "Your mercy's gonna be the death'a ye."

"Oh, aye, but A wouldnae have it any other way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Iain Thompson](http://s0.geograph.org.uk/photos/06/01/060172_11fd2379.jpg).


	4. Neutral Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a fatal ambush on a trio of opponents of Lord Voldemort, four Death Eaters learn there's a high price to pay for magical murder in Glasgow.

30 April 1998  
Crookston Castle  
Pollok, City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK

* * *

The flat door bangs open.

""I'm going with you,"" announces Cherish.

He digs in the cabinet. "No, yer not."

""They're my **friends** an' I'm damn-feckin'-well gonna avenge 'em!"

" **No** , yer not." He straightens, drops the compass and magnet in his breast pockets, tucks some other bits and bobs in other nooks.

Cherish, fists clenched at her sides, glares.

"This's on me, yea?"

"But—"

"Cherish. It only works if I go alone. My city, my rule."

"But Da—"

"I mean it. It's open war if you come." He offers his best devil-may-care. "If I bite it tonight, it'll be your problem and **then** you can do some avenging."

Cherish pouts, flips her hair just like her mum used to.

"You know I'm right."

"Doesn't mean I like it," she grouses.

"Never said you had to."

She sniffs.

He slips on his boots and jacket.

"I you die I'm havin' Isobel bring you back so I can kill you proper."

"I won't die." He goes tippy-toe, pecks her forehead—"See you in a couple hours."—jogs for the station.

Naps his way west and south.

The bastards're still licking their wounds when he catches up to them in what's left of Crookston's castle, pretty much where Rocket Rory guessed they'd be.

He clears his throat and it echoes off the stone walls.

Four heads—all of 'em old enough to know better—swivel to face him, matching shocked expressions on display.

"You lot are hip-deep in shit."

"How'd you get here?!" demands the mousiest one.

"Took the train, then pegged it from the station." He fishes his fags from his pocket, lights one, takes a deep drag.

Exhales.

The bloke flaunting the fancy forearm tattoo gets brave, steps forward, snarls, "Who the fuck're you?"

"Wrong question."

There's enough pause to fill his lungs with smoke.

"Say **what**?"

He exhales the cloud. "I said that's the wrong question t'ask."

Tattoo steps closer. "Do you know who you're talking to, little man?"

"Yea, some nobodies working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-If-Ye-Don't-Feel-Like-Dealing-With-His-Pasty-Arse."

"I'll show— _Fulmeno!_ "

He manages a sigh before the lightning hits.

Tattoo blinks hard, clearly not expecting him standing and un-crisped.

"You 'bout done?"

"But—you should be **dead**!"

"Well, I'm **not** and you have to deal with me." He brushes staticky sparkles from the folds of his shirt.

"Who **are** you?"

"Laird of the City of Glasgow and all things what go 'bump' in its night."

"Vampire," breathes the one cowering hardest.

Tattoo sniffs.

"You're not Dame Kearney," sneers someone looks like the crustiest of old-age-pensioners.

"Ol' Malina's been dead the better part of twenty years—" He knocks ash from the cigarette. "—since I killed her."

A whiff of fear wafts over and he grins.

"What about the other three—"

"You need to pay better attention in class. They've been gone even longer than Malina." He rocks on his heels. "I snuffed them, too."

The whiff becomes a wave.

"Which makes me **sole** Laird of the City of Glasgow, and the heir to all bargains struck with former lairds." He crosses his arms loosely over his chest. "Specifically the one your boss made: my kind'd keep outta yer wizardly wars in exchange for no one with that mark—" He bobs toward Tattoo. "—spilling **any** blood with magic inside city bounds."

Everybody goes shifty-eyed.

"There's been a misunderstanding, sir," wheedles Crusty. "We're only resting in the city. There was no fight in Glasgow."

"Officially, Carmunnock **is** part of Glasgow, so, yea, there was." He takes another drag. "You killed two souls tonight. In **my** city."

"They killed four—"

" **And they're already dead, ye eejits!** "

Mousy and Cringy step back.

"Now, normally, I'd let you off with the beating of yer lives, but one of those ye murdered's my blood, so none'a ye are leaving this park." He drops the spent fag, grinds it out.

"I'd like to see you stop us!" hollers Tattoo.

Aside from a farty noise, nothing happens.

"Yeaaa, 'bout that. This square mile's been a No-Poofin' and No-Flyin' Zone since I strolled up. Ye wanna escape, you need to outrun me."

"How're—you're not a wizard?"

"Ah, no, but I've taken trophies from a few over the years. Like the one keeping you from Apparating."

The quartet exchange looks.

"I'd start running, I was you," he prompts.

Four sets of eyes go terrified and the scent of adrenaline crashes over him like a avalanche.

"Go on now." He shoos them, grinning his broadest. " **Run.** "

They **finally** take to their heels.

He snorts, gives them a sporting five-second head-start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Scott Kirk](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124338116@N08/20605959063/).


	5. This Mess

30 April 1998  
Crookston Castle  
Pollok, City of Glasgow, Scotland, UK

* * *

He lies on the park grass looking up at the stars, city lights in the corner of one eye and Crookston's castle in the other.

His neck itches like crazy.

"'a course the one I pick **had** to be AB-negative."

He pats his pockets instead of scratching, sighs at lack of combustibles.

"Best get this over with, then."

He fishes the compass from his shirt pocket, flips it open, plucks the magnet from inside the cover, snaps it closed.

A breath of fresh city air as the spell breaks.

Magnet goes in one pocket, compass in the other.

He tucks his hands under his head, hollers at the clear sky, "Oi! Lord Voldemort! Need a moment of your time!"

A _pop_.

He sits up, crosses his legs.

A rather pissed off, be-robed wizard lackey steps out of the poof, glaring. "Who're you to—"

"Vampire Laird of Glasgow. Need you to clean up this mess." He gestures to the four bodies strewn about the lawn. "They broke the 'no blood in Glasgow' agreement, so I punished 'em as I saw fit."

Lackey blinks hard and fast, mouth working wordlessly.

"If ye consult yer little book of rules, this's covered by the deal the good Lord made with Dame Kearney, my sire and the last Laird."

Lackey gets his mouth closed, croaks, "A moment, please."

"Take your time, but we're out in the open, aye? Anyone can see us."

Lackey startles, fumbles a black book out of his sleeve, flips pages, then settles and skims.

He pushes to his feet, dusts off the seat of his trousers.

"It says ... you are within your rights, but—" Lackey grins nastily. "—one of the wizards who attacked my colleagues escaped."

"Yea, Rocket Rory Fegan. I know."

"Why didn't you kill **him**?"

"I've known Rocket for **yonks** and his aim's shite. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barge. You **sure** he killed someone? **I** figure the bird took 'em all."

"A **witch**? Kill **four Death Eaters**?"

"The nastiest fighters I've ever met've all been women, so." He shrugs.

"We **demand** you treat Fegan the same as you did ours!"

"Listen, I'll tell ye what: **if** you can prove to me Fegan killed somebody tonight in Glasgow, I'll end him. That's fair, yea?"

"That's—how're we supposed to do that?! You've killed all the witnesses!"

"Yeaaa ... bit of a wrinkle, that."

Lackey makes a frustrated sound and curls of steam go up from his ears.

He smiles as sweet as he can.

"Fine. Fegan will get his soon enough." Lackey points his wand to each corpse in turn, mutters something Latin.

The bodies disappear with sighs.

He inclines his head. "Thank ye most kindly."

"You watch yourself, vampire. Once the Dark Lord takes Hogwarts, we'll be coming for your kind."

"Coming for me and mine means the neutrality's off and we'll be coming for **you**."

Lackey sniffs.

"Think about that a moment. Every vampire what owes me a favour, hunting you down like I did those idiots. I took as many of you on my own as three wizards did together." He smirks. "Best stock up on crosses and garlic."

Lackey Poofs off before his fear gets **too** obvious.

He sighs, stretches his arms over his head, then tucks his hands in his pockets, puts his shoulders back, strolls—

_pop!_

"Aw ... fer—" He spins around. "—fer fu—Pete's sake point that thing somewhere else!"

Isobel huffs, "Quit your whinging. This little thing couldn't kill **you** ," and lowers her small-caliber semi-automatic handgun with a sigh.

"No, but it'd hurt and I'd get funny looks on the train, what with the hole and the blood." He cocks his head. "You're **still** trying to **shoot** the Dark Lord?"

She tut-tuts as she tucks the gun into her over-sized purse. "Of **course** I am. I only need to catch up with that insult to magic-kind." Braces her hands on her hips. "One clear shot. That's all I want."

He gives a low whistle. "The balls on you, woman ...."

"Don't need 'em." Isobel smiles full of mischief. "I have my range certificate and a spare clip."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"I don't **have** a bad side, young man."

"Of course. My mistake and my sincerest apologies." He bows deeply.

Isobel snorts, then studies him over her half-moon specs, frowning.

"I'm not going on the naughty list, am I?"

"You've not been eating right."

"I just took care of that. Shouldn't need another feed for **months**."

"You got the bastarts killed Ailsa and Beathan, then?"

"Yea. Tell Rocket he's in the clear for me, would'ye? You'll see him before I will."

"Shall do. There anything else I can do for you tonight?"

"Yea." He scuffs a boot on the grass. "Win this thing. Don't much fancy livin' forever in a world run by that lot."

"Neither do I." Isobel smiles like the (great-whatever) grandmother she is. "Take care of yourself, lovely." She draws her arm across her chest—

_pop!_

He shakes his head at the empty spot, turns—

_pop!_

—back around, eyebrow up.

"You're **certain** there's nothing I can do for you?"

"Yea, I'm fine, Isobel."

She eyes him and he's suddenly five with his hand in Ma's biscuit tin.

He ducks his head.

Isobel softens her posture and her voice. "I'm sorry about your nephew. He was a wonderful man who deserved better."

He waves it off.

She makes a noise somewhere between fond and frustrated. "Stop by for a cuppa next time you're in Inverness, aye?"

"So you and the old man can talk my ears off?"

"We'll reattach them when we're through. Pinkie promise." She waggles the digit.

He smiles against his will. "I'll take it into consideration."

"Good enough. See you at the victory party~!"

_pop!_

"Crazy old bat."

He rocks around on his heels, strolls for the train station—and the little shop next to it that sells his brand.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by my favorite partner-in-crime, artificiallifecreator.
> 
> I don't expect or intend there to be more installments, but if a fitting scene presents itself I'll be adding it.


End file.
